The Relic Keeper (7 page)

“Deon!”

He looked around for the person who had spoken, but the apartment was dark and empty.

“Jesus?” Deon enquired. “Is that you?” But no one answered, and Deon returned to his thoughts.

And as he thought about the man brought back to the world he wondered what his purpose was, and how that was tied to the reliquary in front of him. And gradually the veil of fog fell around his mind blocking all thoughts but these.

Far across town the same story caught Philip’s eye, although for very different reasons. The initial broadcast was short; thirty seven seconds on the end of the bulletin, but as soon as it finished his c-pac buzzed violently and he took the call from the office.

“Did you see that final item?”

“Yeah, Ravi, I did,” replied Philip wearily; it had been another long night and he wasn’t in the mood very his boss’s over-enthusiasm.

“What do you reckon?”

“If it’s true it’d be amazing. But I doubt that it is. It’s almost certainly some hoax or publicity manager’s campaign. Who is the guy? I didn’t catch his name. Do you have any details?”

“Not really. The original story was leaked from the Walden Centre yesterday, and they’ve not made any official line yet, except that a statement will be imminent. Probably not tomorrow, the news guys seem to have added that themselves. The guy? Someone named Lyal. No info yet on him. Do you want the story?”

Philip thought for a second, than looked at the pile of notes about Fort Burlington clogging up the screen. He tapped the input pen quietly against his teeth while he thought.

“No, leave it,” he said to Ravi. “I’ve got a shit load here already without chasing some wanky hoax. But keep me informed, I’ll keep up with it in case it develops.”

“Ok,” said Ravi and terminated the link.

“Rude fuckwit,” said Philip to the blank screen as it closed midair. He made a note on the c-pac to alert him for updates on the story and then went back to the piles of notes on Nasreen Freeman and the Islamic Foundation and Freedom League.

The c-pac buzzed angrily and Philip found himself suddenly upright in his chair, his neck ached from sleeping in the wrong position. He cancelled the noise, which had intruded into his dream. He looked around. The apartment was a mess, as usual, and a half-finished bottle of JD sat waiting patiently for him on the table.

“Fuck,” he said aloud, rubbing the back of his neck. He checked into the c-pac, which informed him that an update on the Lyal story was due in the shape of an official statement at about 9.30am. A week had passed since he had first come across the story and Philip had all but forgotten about the strange little story tacked onto the end of the broadcast. He accessed the time; it was a little after 6am. “Well, not worth going to bed now then,” he mumbled. He held his hand in front of his mouth and checked his breath: it stank. He gargled, held his head under the cold water and poured some coffee. He activated the wall lights on and stood looking into the mirror. “You’re a fuckin’ mess ain’t you,” he said to the reflection. He’d been in good shape once, but he’d slipped, like everyone his age in the industry. He ate the wrong food, and at the wrong times, but it was just easier to eat the junk and noodles from the street vendors when he was working. A decent diet and some exercise and he’d be back there, but shit, when do you get the chance. He stared at his reflection and tilted his head so that the small scar on his cheek showed less. He breathed in and rubbed his stomach. He would start doing some sit-ups – from tomorrow. He slipped a shirt on as he walked back into the one room of the apartment that was actually used.

“What will we find today?” he switched the light off, settled back into his chair and began setting queries on the news items transmitted.

The broadcast came at 9.42am and was short and concise. The BBC reporter gave a brief overview of the clinic, which had been running since 2042, when it had taken over the cases and files from an old private amalgamation of practices. It dealt mainly in transplants and organ regeneration and had a fair, although by no means outstanding, record of success.

“But recent events here,” the reporter continued, “could have a profound effect on the standing of the Walden Centre. Under the supervision of Dr Amar Malik a patient has been resuscitated after a world breaking time spent clinically dead. The patient, Mr Lyal, was diagnosed with angina, a heart condition once relatively common in this country, and suffered a coronary as a result of this in 1999. If this case is correct it means that a person can be basically rejuvenated after a length of time previously thought impossible. The implications are vast for the health industry, as well as long distance travel and of course those people wealthy enough to want to avoid death.

“The pictures that you are seeing have been supplied by the Walden Centre and no contact with Mr Lyal has so far been allowed, but that could change in the next few days if the state of his health improves. Currently we are told that Mr Lyal is comfortable and able to talk. However, having been officially dead for 69 years how he will cope and whether he has been fully alerted to length of time he remained in a coma, as they are calling his state of suspension, remain to be seen. Meanwhile, several eminent doctors and surgeons have suggested that the case is a hoax, while the General Synod of the Church of England has said that they remain anxious about the implications of the act of resuscitation over this time.”

Philip watched the soundless pictures beneath the reporter’s chatter. The man shown was thin and looked weak in the few pictures that featured him. Most of the focus was on the staff surrounding him and Dr Malik. Philip set the alert for all future bulletins on Lyal or the Walden Centre, and then returned to his real work. The alert joined the dozens of others on Philip’s c-pac relating to news stories that may at some point be worth reviewing, and like most of the rest of these, Philip forgot about the Walden Centre almost as soon as he began work on his current story.

James was cold and wet. He’d had a shit day at work and tomorrow didn’t look like it would be better. The new job was just as bad as the old one. The weather was miserable, the tube wasn’t running, he was four weeks behind with his rent and Clara had just dumped him after only two dates. That had really pissed him off.
Like she’s the fucking business. The fat cow only worked in some bar; she should be grateful,
he thought,
to have someone like me interested in her. And she fucking dumps me, because of some stupid rumour she heard. Well, fuck her. Fuck her completely. No, let her fuck herfucking-self.
The rain trickled down his collar and into his shirt while he walked dejectedly, mumbling obscenities about Clara. And to top it all, his supervisor was giving him grief about his work shifts, which basically meant he worked longer hours for less money. Then they'd all been told to stay, unpaid no doubt, for media relations trainimg. Now that the Walden Centre was set to be catapulted into an arena of public praise they’d become stuck up and concerned about their profile. All James had to do was clean floors and toilets and occasionally push around some old fucker before their op, or some dead fucker after it. And now they wanted to make him increase his shifts and keep a more ‘image-friendly profile’. They insisted that he ‘smarten up’, and for the chicken feed that they paid. Well, James was pissed and needed to calm himself before he really did tell them to stick the job. If he thought he’d get another one he’d have done that today, but the way things had been lately, that would just get him straight onto the streets.
Cunts!

The transport strike had made him late home, and he couldn’t afford his own bike, so he’d have to lump it. He turned off Streatham High Road towards Tooting Bec Common, and hurried past the roadside food-stalls and market traders, dodging the continuous flow of idiots on bikes, who flew passed him, spraying filthy water from the road all over him. He felt the spray from a truck passing overhead and pulled his hat down against the rain. He hated Britain, it was a real shit-tip. The weather, the people, the money, the work, everything here was crap. A man standing on the street corner shouted out to him:

“You friend. You need assistance, God is waiting to help you.”

“Fuck you,” James yelled back and turned off into an apartment block.

Once inside he shook his coat and hat and waited for eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. The wall lights weren’t working, as usual, and the hallway smelt of piss and puke. Illuminated graffiti lined the walls: some patterned, some names, some gang marks. James kept a tight hold on his wallet, which he’d secured inside his belt, as he walked along the dank corridors. Some boys stood in doorways and muttered things as he walked past. He kept his head down and avoided eye contact until he reached French’s door. He knocked but got no reply.

“Shit,” he muttered. He’d already checked that he’d be in. So where was the lanky git? He activated his c-pac but the charge was depleted. James looked around. A group of people were moving toward him.
I may just have to take what I’m offered
, he thought. A noise to one side made him jump, and before he knew it a group of people surrounded him. Most were boys, he’d guess about 16 or 17, although a couple were older. With their dark scarves across their faces it was hard to tell. Their faces partially obscured added to the menacing look. As they came in close their faces came into view, but their skeletal gaze did nothing to alleviate the tension.

“What you after brov?”

“Looking for French,” replied James. He was calm, he’d been in worse situations, but he really needed a fix, and that made him edgy.

“French gone. What you want? I can sort you brov.”

“I was looking for something from him, that’s all.”

“I know what you lookin’ for brov, and I got it for you. Best stuff, trips, tabs, browns.”

“I need some browns,” said James. This was going to be the best chance he could have of scoring anything, especially if French had left. “How much?”

“What you got on ya, brov?” the boy took a small package from his pocket and showed James. “I’ll take 200 bucks for 4.”

“No, no, no. That’s too much.” The boy stared back at him, his pale blue eyes shining like some feline predator in the darkness.

“What you got to offer?”

James took out his wallet and shook it open. He hated the way you had to use cash to get things on the street. It was like the Dark Ages. “That’s what I got on me, but I need to keep some back….”

Something suddenly felt wrong. He put his hand against his side: it felt warm and wet, and he heard the gentle noise of air escaping from his lung. The boy snatched James’ wallet and snapped his hand shut. The others began to walk away as James fell against the wall, the blood pouring from the gash in his side. He smelt the piss on the floor as his body folded like paper. He tried to think of what to do, but all that was in his head now was his fix and the cold. He struck at the nearest door; the flat of his hand beating on the cold metal. The watcher above him turned and the lens looked down at him.

“Help me!” he mouthed into the watcher, as he sprawled across the floor. The door opened and a head stuck out, looked in both directions, then down at James. He felt his eyes close and his skin turn cold, he looked up at the tall thin man in the doorway as he passed out of consciousness. Deon looked down at James, checked the corridor again and then pulled the man into his apartment.

James was already dead by the time Deon heaved him onto the bed. He noticed the wound in his side had been huge, probably a sonic knife, which would have scrambled half his body in a matter of seconds. This was why he’d moved away from the tenement, and now people were turning up dead and dying on his doorstep again. Deon pulled the body back to the door, leaving a trail of blood across the floor that showed like a dark river in the gloom of the apartment. He could jettison the corpse down the waste when everything was clear, no need for him to get involved. He rummaged through the pockets, more from force of habit than anything else. A key card a broken c-pac charger, some nicotine tbs, and some ID. Deon looked at the card:
James Peacock. Selected Access. The Walden Centre. No. 5896438.
Where had he heard of the Walden Centre before? Then he remembered; he accessed his c-pac and brought up the news broadcast. That was it. He’d seen the report, and now he had a pass card into the place where this Lyal and was being treated. This couldn’t be coincidence. This was fate. Somehow his future was linked to Lyal’s, and God had given him a chance to make this real.
If this is really my chance
, he thought,
then I have to take it. I was meant to go there. Lyal needs me, and this message shows me how to contact him. And if he’s back from the dead, perhaps in this hour of devastation, the true King had returned.

Future Relic

His exercises still made Mathew’s legs ache like hell. He’d been on them for well over a week and the pain was not decreasing at all. His assigned osteopath, a man named Trace whose head and body appeared to Mathew to be completely square, always made him think of him as a Russian shot-putter. To add insult to injury every time he complained about it to Rei or Trace they seemed pleased that the feelings in his legs allowed such discomfort. Maybe the pain had reduced, he thought – although even if it had eased, it still remained excruciating. Rei had brought him a small metallic pole that was evidently a kind of walking stick, but Mathew considered that it would be a long time before he would be taking steps with it.

Every afternoon Trace pulled and prodded Mathew and set machines against different parts of his body. The instruments were strapped to him for about an hour in each position, and they vibrated slightly sending a tingling sensation up his spine. And afterwards his legs ached as if he’d been stretched on a rack, and Rei and Trace, or sometimes one of the other doctors came in and prodded him, made some remarks to their colleagues, smiled patronisingly at Mathew and left him to contend with the pain. And this, apparently, was progress. And after the exercises he’d lie in the still and quiet white room and wonder what the fuck was going to happen to him.

But today seemed slightly different. This day, whatever day it was, after Trace left him, he felt a twinge in his left leg. At first he thought it was the usual pain he’d come to associate with the vibrating machines, but no, this was slightly different. He watched his leg twitch in the pale light. At first it was just a muscle spasm, an involuntary reaction; and then it came. A kick. It was short and weak, but unmistakably it was a kick. He concentrated his mind on the limb, to the exclusion of all else…and it twitched.

“Jesus Christ my leg moves,” he said out loud to no-one. He hit the emergency button, and within seconds several porters, doctors and general medical dogsbodies were in the room. He looked about for a familiar face and eventually saw Rei. “Rei. I can move my leg. My fucking leg moves. Watch.” It was the first time either of them had ever really seen the other smile.

Over the following days Mathew was amazed at the rate the feeling returned to his legs. Within four days he was able to move them, to a fashion, and Rei informed him that he might actually be able to walk in a matter of weeks. She even arranged for him to be toured around the corridor of his floor in a motorised wheelchair, in which he was able to sit upright with only a mild sense of discomfort. He was rather disappointed that the floor that he could move on was deserted. It was full of empty rooms, white and light, and divided up more like offices than hospital rooms. Much as he’d taken a liking to the laconic oriental girl, he’d like to be able to speak with someone else. Trace was less talkative than Rei and the flow of porters and medics that passed by appeared to be on instructions not to acknowledge, let alone answer, any questions he put to them.

It was because of this that the new porter seemed to stand out from the rest. He hadn’t actually done anything; just come into the room briefly, moved some objects around and left. In fact he hardly seemed to have a job at all, but merely moved things for their own sake. He was tall and thin and seemed a little vague at times, but he was friendly, and he’d smiled at Mathew and asked how he was feeling. It had struck Mathew instantly as the first time that anyone apart from a few well-trained medics had spoken to him.

The movement in his legs made him feel like a human again. Whatever his future in this world was, it wasn’t confined to this small room anymore, and that could only be good. He sat upright in his bed practising moving his legs in turn for the day when he’d actually be able to walk again. He didn’t even notice the door slide open and the friendly porter enter until he was nearly next to him with a tray of food. Mathew looked up at the man. He was young, early twenties he’d reckon, and had a dark olive skin and black hair that gave him a Mediterranean look. He was thin, and when he opened his mouth one of his teeth was crooked. That was the first time that Mathew really noted that everyone he’d seen here seemed to have perfectly aligned teeth. Everyone apart from this man.

“Morning. How are you today?”

“You know, I think I’m better than I’ve been for quite a while,” said Mathew. The tray of food was placed in front of him. He’d been on liquids for the first week after he regained consciousness, and then gradually the food had become more solid until now he was getting what passed for real food every day. Mathew still sometimes thought that he felt the solid food passing within him, but it could have been his imagination. He looked at the unappetising plate in front of him.

“Tell me,” he said to the porter, “does anyone here eat anything that isn’t noodles or rice with fish?”

“Good stuff that, sir,” said the porter enthusiastically. “Could do a damn sight worse. All the nutrients that you could possibly ask for in there. It’s all critical stuff. And you can feed a lot of people with just a few fishes. You should know that.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t taste of anything.” The porter tilted his head but made no reply. “It doesn’t matter,” carried on Mathew.

“Do you want me to try to get you something special? I can get anything.” He lowered his voice and bent down to Mathew’s ear, as if he suspected that they were being listened to. “I can get you anything you want, just ask, but keep it secret.”

Mathew felt a small rush of anxiety run though him. He briefly thought about the first time a friend’s older brother had brought them hash when they were 14. It was a strange feeling.

“What could you get?” he asked, curiosity getting the better.

“Anything,” came the vague reply.

“I’ll let you know,” he whispered, sensing that the promise was somewhat hollow.

“Let me know,” echoed the porter as he turned to leave.

“I tell you what I would like,” yelled Mathew after him as he reached the door. “Some music. Rei promised she’d get some, but she never brought any. Could you do that?”

“Yes sir, I can get music.”

“Thanks, err, sorry, I never caught your name.”

“James. James Peacock.”

“Well thank you James. You could be my saviour.”

“No problem sir. You could be mine.”